Purple and Blue
by PurpleCadet
Summary: "He'll never get used to seeing her cry, but it isn't something that he can forget either." one-shot.


After the end of _She's Mine _I just had to write something.

_I own nothing._

* * *

He's grateful for the emptiness of his office when he returns later. In the morning he'll have to answer for himself, but until then he'll bask in a few hours of silence.

He pours himself a scotch, hand clenched around the bottle – steady as ever. He slumps down on the couch, allowing himself a moment to breathe. The first sip burns in all the right ways, but leaves an unpleasant taste in the back of his throat.

He closes his eyes, downing the rest of his scotch in one long gulp. He considers hurling the glass at the wall, but refrains. It would only mean another mess to clean up in the morning.

He never hears her approach, but her presence weighs heavily in the doorway that he notices immediately when she enters. Harvey opens his eyes and it unnerves him when Donna refuses to look at him; her hair hiding her features from view.

She drags his chair out from behind his desk, taking a seat in front of him so that they're level with one another. When their knees touch she finally looks him in the eye – wearing the same solemn expression that made him lose control in the first place.

A first aid kit rests in her lap. She must have had it with her the whole time, but he's too distracted by the crease in her brow and the way she gnaws at the inside of her cheek to notice. She opens the kit and takes out an alcohol-free wipe.

He keeps his gaze trained on her as she studies his face, assessing the damage. She winces – almost imperceptibly – but he catches it. She brings the wipe up to the cut on his eyebrow while her other hand gently holds his face still. She cleans the small wound, meticulously wiping the blood from his brow. She's careful with him; as if she's afraid he'll break. He doesn't have the heart to point out that it's_ her_ hands that are trembling.

She finishes swabbing the cut and covers it neatly with a band aid.

"You didn't have to do that," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You should see the other guy."

The joke is a bad one that tears at the cut on his lip when he makes it. Donna doesn't smile or smirk. It isn't a surprise really.

She opens the kit again, pulling out another wipe. Her hands return to his face, cradling his jaw delicately.

"Donna, you don't –"

"Let me."

Her words are firm, leaving no room for protest. He'd smile if it didn't sting so badly.

She presses the wipe to his lip, holding it in place. The intimacy of the act would shatter him if it were anyone else. The realisation that she always takes care of him settles low in his gut. Sometimes he finds himself wishing he could return the favour.

"It doesn't look too deep," she informs him.

"Hurts like hell when I talk."

"Then that should tell you something," she replies with a ghost of a smile. Their eyes lock, the moment stretching out in front of him; an immeasurable amount of time. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, wet with unshed tears. It wears him down seeing her like this. He'll never get used to seeing her cry, but it isn't something that he can forget either.

The moment passes – as all of theirs do. She sets the first aid kit aside and stands, smoothing down invisible creases in her dress before throwing the wipes into the trash. She drops down wordlessly beside him, close enough that the length of her thigh touches his.

Harvey takes her hand, folding it in his. He pretends not to notice her blood-stained finger tips. He hears her gasp, not knowing the reason for it until he glances down at their joined hands. His right fist is swollen, already turning a hideous shade of purple and blue. There's a split right between his knuckles – another chink in his armour.

"Jesus, Harvey," Donna sighs, her voice breaking.

"He deserved it."

"He _deserves _to be in jail."

He hears it in her voice then; a mixture of fury, disappointment and sadness. She shakes her head. "I should have seen it."

Harvey looks at her, dumbfounded, and more than a little outraged.

_No way in hell is he letting her do this._

"I'm only going to say this once, and I shouldn't even have to say it now," he pauses, "**You are not responsible for ****any**** of this**. And don't you dare think otherwise."

He can tell she's surprised by the way he phrases it so unequivocally, the conviction that laces his words alarming her. She nods, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Promise me you won't ever do something like that again."

It's rare that she ever pleads like this. But he can't make a promise like that, not yet. Not while his heart is still beating erratically in his chest and his fists are still throbbing. Not while Donna is fighting the urge to break down in front of him and he's fighting the urge to break Stephen's neck.

Donna senses this though, and she knows him better than most. Better than anyone actually. She touches his chin, angling his head and admiring her handiwork.

"Well next time don't get hit so hard. I can't be your secretary and your nurse."

He smirks, gripping her hand in response. "I'd do it again," he says before he can bite back the words.

And he knows he would – a thousand times over. "I'd do it to anyone that does that to…"

"The firm?"

With his free hand Harvey tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, letting his hand glide down the slope of her neck. _What can he say? He's always liked playing with fire. _

"Yeah. The firm."

Her smile is wide and bright. Harvey knows he won't forget that either.


End file.
